


Tether

by jacyevans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Tether(s), F/M, M/M, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up a month after giving his life to save his father with the image of Kate Argent burning behind his eyes.</p><p>(Deaton only told them about the darkness around their hearts. He never mentioned <i>this.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tether

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaycares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaycares/gifts).



Stiles wakes up a month after giving his life to save his father with the image of Kate Argent burning behind his eyes.

His fingers ache, down to the knuckle, a jolt of sensitivity up his arm when he taps the tips of them against his desk; when he voices this, Derek frowns.

“That’s what it feels like,” Derek says slowly, softly - so many things are soft about him now, like the way he smiles at Braeden - soft, fond, _flirtatious._ It’s a good look on him. “On the full moon, when you’re fighting the change. Your fingers ache. So does your mouth.”

Braeden folds her arms over her chest. “But it’s not a full moon. And Stiles is human.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, but you should see the size of my--”

Braeden slaps at the back of his head. Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles wakes the next morning, and he can’t read a thing.

The letters don’t make sense anymore, just symbols on a page that should mean something but don’t. Scott complains of a headache every time he so much as tries to pick up a book.

“Werewolves don’t get headaches,” Stiles says, though the pain Isaac leeches from the side of Scott’s head in between classes is evidence of the contrary.

Stiles refuses to think about what that means - deny, deny, deny, that’s his motto - the same way he ignores the wild, sickening twist of his stomach that usually signals an oncoming panic attack the same day Allison almost shoots Lydia with an arrow.

He stays firmly in denial until he’s captured by hunters - the same inept but effective assholes who captured Derek with a vendetta against the old pack (thanks, Derek, is there anyone you _haven’t_ pissed off?), more than willing to take their anger out on the new alpha. They’re none too pleased that the mercenary they paid to guard his cell was paid more by his uncle to have him released.

His wrists are tied above his head with a piece of rope threaded through a hook in the ceiling, head throbbing from the blow to the back of his skull, and he’s loopy from the drugs they used to keep him pliable and calm. His eyes swim, and he sees double, sure he’s imagining things when his guard shouts in surprise, followed by the echo of gunshots, and the muffled sound of a crossbow striking true.

Lydia breaks the mountain ash barrier around his feet, while Braeden and Derek cut him down, Isaac and Scott tying up the survivors.

“Thanks,” Stiles croaks, knees giving out. Scott’s there in an instant, arms a tight band around his waist, just before he throws up all over Braeden’s shoes.

\--

Later, when the drugs have worn off and his head feels less like a bunch of midgets are playing the mamba with tiny hammers against his brain, he asks Scott, “How did you find me?”

They’re laying together on Scott’s bed, Stiles at the warm center of a werewolf cuddle pile. Allison and Lydia are curled up in the big, green chair in the corner, Braeden and Derek murmuring to each other where they’re standing sentry at the door. Stiles is pretty sure he owes her a new pair of boots.

“I felt you,” Scott says, after a moment’s pause. Isaac stiffens at Stiles’ back. “I don’t know how, I just… I felt you. In my head.” Stiles frowns.

He doesn’t try to make sense of it - any of it - until he wakes up with Scott’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle because _Allison_ heard him screaming all the way across town. His father, bless him, says nothing about the sudden appearance of his best friend through his window in the middle of the night, just goes downstairs to get both of them a glass of water.

“What’s happening to us?” Stiles croaks. “Scotty?”

Scott’s breath shivers out against his neck. “I don’t know.”

So, Stiles does what he does best - he researches.

They don’t find anything in the bestiary. Allison flat-out refuses to accept help from Peter (Lydia goes behind her back and asks anyway with a Molotov cocktail in one hand and a taser in the other. The look on Peter’s face is _priceless._ )

Deaton is his usual cryptic asshole self when they finally bite the bullet and ask for help. The sun beats down so Stiles feels his neck burning even through the tiny, basement windows.

“You can read each other’s minds?” Deaton leans forwards, hands clasped in front of him on the metal exam table. He upends the sheaf of papers under his elbow, and they flutter to the ground. Stiles tries to read over his shoulder, but the words bleed into each other, just ink on the page.

He shudders and rolls his eyes when Scott glances over, brow furrowed. “Sure; Scott’s thinking about Allison, and Allison is thinking about how much she would like to strangle me.”

“It’s uncanny,” she says dryly.

Scott huffs, while Stiles and Allison exchange a smirk behind his back. “Not exactly,” Scott says, pulling them back on target. Pack meetings would fall apart without him. “We sort of… sense each other, at times of heightened emotions. I found Stiles when he was kidnapped.”

“By scent?”

“By… feeling. I just… felt where he was.”

“Very explanatory, Scotty; your keen powers of observation will get you far.” Stiles gives him a thumbs up. Allison glares.

Scott gives him the finger without looking away from Deaton. “I can’t explain it.”

Deaton’s face gives nothing away. Stiles bets he’s a master at poker. “It appears a bond was formed the night you gave your lives to save your parents.”

“Is there a way to undo it?” Allison asks, a little sharply. Scott grimaces. “I like my mind being my own.”

“Given time and distance, it should pass.” Stiles grits his teeth when Deaton stands, signaling the end of the conversation, going over to one of the cages in the corner, where a tiny, Maltese puppy with a bright green cast is shivering against the bars.

The next full moon, Allison tears apart her bedroom; Lydia calls Stiles after she finds her sitting in the middle of the wreckage, head turned down around her trembling knees.

“I couldn’t stop,” Allison says, voice cracked and broken. Scott kneels beside her and curls an arm around her shoulders, looking at Stiles with big, sad eyes that say, as plain as words, _Fix this._

Stiles gives him an equally exasperated look, because _how?_

\--

They find the answer by accident.

Allison approaches the Jeep one morning in the parking lot at school. Stiles leans against the hood of the car, jumping up and down when he burns his palm against the heated metal. Scott rolls his eyes from where he’s crouched down, adjusting something on his bike. He glances up when she approaches.

“I want to go shooting,” Allison says, her back straight and stiff, chin held high. Only her clenched hands around the strap of her archery bag give away her nerves.

Scott and Stiles exchange a wary glance. “We can go after school--” Scott starts to say.

“No, now. I want to go _now._ ” She shifts from foot to foot, a fine tremble running up and down her back. Stiles reaches for her wrist, but pulls away at the last second, not sure if the touch would be welcome. “It’s getting worse,” she says softly. “I keep dreaming about Kate. She wants me to kill you, she -- she--”

Scott stands up and places a hand on her shoulder. Allison swallows.

“Okay,” Scott says, “Let’s go now.”

“I don’t want to take Finstock’s test anyway,” Stiles adds, and its worth the glares he receives.

They drive out to the preserve in the Jeep, Allison cramming into the back with her gear. She checks her bow on the way, hands moving restlessly across the string until Scott reaches back and still her motions.

The sun is shining high in the sky, leaving Stiles’ back sticky with sweat as Scott sets up a target roughly fifty feet away. It’s a shot Allison could make in her sleep, but she’s biting her lip, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Come on, Allison, you can do this,” Stiles murmurs.

Allison huffs a strained laugh as she plants her feet. “What, no witty rejoinder?”

“Aim at Scott; at least he’ll heal.”

“That’s not funny,” she snaps, punching him in the arm.

Stiles yelps, jumping backwards. “What?! You asked! I was merely supplying for your demand.” He pauses. “That sounded a lot less dirty in my head.”

“Jesus, Stiles,” Scott shouts, but even from this far away, Stiles can tell he’s laughing.

Allison aims at Scott, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Scott jerks out of the way. Her smile falters as she adjusts her aim, taking a deep breath. She releases the arrow.

She misses the target.

Huffing, Allison grabs another arrow from the quiver on her back, but when she stands, she’s somewhere else, eyes hazy and unfocused. Panic tugs at the back of Stiles’ mind, chest twisting so he can’t catch his breath.

He grabs Allison’s arm on instinct, and she jolts, turning the arrow on Stiles.

“Allison,” he whispers, heart beating wildly, her fear and his own weaving together until his blood is a mess of rushing adrenaline. His limbs shake. He doesn’t let go.

Scott approaches slowly at her back, nudging up her shirt to get to the skin beneath. Slowly, her gaze clears. Her eyes widen. She starts to lower the bow.

“Stiles, I’m so--”

“Take the shot.”

Allison looks at him like he’s grown a second head and started spouting French. “What?”

Stiles grips her elbow, guiding her arms up and aiming in the general direction of the target. “Take. The shot.”

“Are you crazy?” She squints into the distance. “Your aim is shit.”

“Prove it.”

Scott presses his fingers into her skin, squeezing her hip. She adjusts her stance. Her breath hitches.

The arrow flies straight to the center of the target, and Allison laughs, breathless. Scott and Stiles exchange a grin.

\--

They adjust.

Stiles tacks Scott’s work schedule to the wall in his room, highlighting the days in green when his vision blurs and he can’t read the words properly. He keeps Scott company as he refills food and water and checks bandages, brushing a hand across his hip or his arm as he fills out expense forms.

The first and only time Stiles hesitates to touch Allison, she rolls her eyes and hooks her elbow through the bend of his arm, walking him to his next class. She makes it a habit after that, and Stiles gets used to the warm weight of her pressed up against his side.

Word buzzes around school that Allison is dating both of them, the lacrosse team captain and that weird Stilinski kid. Stiles pays them no mind, but the first time someone calls Allison a slut, Lydia slaps the guilty bastard across the face.

“He had it coming,” she says, heels clacking across the floor as she takes Stiles’ other arm, Isaac standing behind Scott like the world’s most adorable bodyguard.

Derek says nothing when he and Allison follow Scott to one of his weekly classes at Alpha Training School. (“Don’t call it that, Stiles,” Derek snaps, which means the phrase now has a permanent spot in his vocabulary.)

Allison sits at the big table near the windows and pulls out her homework, dropping her feet into Stiles’ lap.

“I’m not giving you a foot rub,” Stiles says, not glancing up from his Calculus homework. The numbers blur, letters dripping down the page, and he shuts his eyes tight, squeezing Allison’s ankle. She nudges his thigh with her toes.

 _Use the definition of the derivative to find the derivative of the following functions,_ he reads when he opens his eyes, breath leaving his lungs in a rush.

Braeden watches the entire exchange with narrowed eyes from where she’s cleaning her guns at the other end of the table. She waits to pounce until Allison goes to the kitchen for a drink and slides into the seat Allison vacated. She leans backwards with her elbows resting on the edge of the table in an easy sprawl. Stiles ignores her, taking a sip of his soda.

“What’s your opinion on threesomes?” she says, and he spits Pepsi across the table. She ducks out of the way just in time. “Watch it; you still owe me a pair of boots.”

“With you and Derek?” he squeaks - it’s a very manly squeak.

Braeden rolls her eyes, gripping his chin and turning his head to where Scott and Allison are holding hands. “With _them,_ jackass.”

Stiles flushes, heart racing. “With Scott? No he’s - he’s my friend, my buddy, just a pal. No romantic feelings whatsoever.”

Braeden raises an eyebrow. “And Allison?”

“She’s just a friend, too. Haven’t you heard, she and Scott are _soulmates._ ” He rolls his eyes, glad she can’t hear his heart racing.

She releases his chin, sighs, and shakes her head - like she knows something he doesn’t.

\--

Stiles wakes that night with blood slicking his skin all the way up to his elbows and a knife held tight between his fingers. He blinks and he’s safe in his bed, hands clenched around his sheets, staring at the red string lining the walls of his bedroom. Something heavy sits in his chest just behind his ribs, squeezes his heart and scurries under his skin until he shivers all over.

His window creaks open, and a gust of cool air rushes into the room. Scott leaps inside, red eyes bright against the darkness. He turns, holding out his hand as Allison steps over the sill. She’s dressed in nothing but one of Scott’s t-shirts and a pair of shorts, bare feet even quieter than Scott’s when they hit the floor.

“I felt you,” Scott whispers, words slurred around the sharp teeth in his mouth. “I felt you both dreaming.”

“Deaton’s a fucking liar,” Stiles croaks. His voice lacks the snap he was going for. Scott curls his hands into fists, claws pinching at the skin until blood drips from his palms to the carpet.

“You’re scrubbing that out,” Stiles says, even while he tugs Scott down until they’re lying together on the bed, his face pressed against Scott’s shoulder. Allison lays down at Scott’s back, easy as you please, heedless of the fangs and claws that could tear them to shreds before they even have a chance to blink.

Scott breathes, and the redness of his eyes fades, claws retracting into blunt, bitten-down fingernails that drag against Stiles’ shoulders. He shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes, and lays back down with his arms looped around Stiles’ waist. Allison’s hands rub soft circles into the skin where his shirt rides up. 

Stiles tells them about his nightmare in soft whispers, lips pressed against Scott’s shoulder. Allison hums thoughtfully, breath warm against his neck. He lifts his head to find her staring at him, bottom lip tugged between her teeth.

She has nothing more than a hazy memory of her dream: her aunt walking through a field of flowers, a boa constrictor slithering in the grass beneath her feet. She curls up easily with her head against the back of Scott’s shoulder, bare foot rubbing lightly against his calf.

“Look the innocent flower. Be the serpent under it,” she says, and both Stiles and Scott look at her, puzzled.

"Isn't that Shakespeare?" Scott asks, and Stiles stares, because seriously, Scott knows this. Seriously?

Allison nods. "Macbeth. It’s what Jennifer said to Lydia, before she tried to kill her.”

Scott growls, eyes blazing red, and something bubbles up inside of Stiles, an electric storm beneath his skin. The porch light flickers. The wind howls. Stiles breathes.

He closes the distance between them, kissing Scott on the mouth, hand curling around the back of his neck. Scott tastes like the french fries they had for dinner and the absolutely disgusting peanut butter shake he always insists on getting from the local diner. Stiles licks into his mouth anyway, grips the front of his shirt while Scott grips his hips, fingers twisting tight in the waistband of his pants.

Stiles pulls back, resting their foreheads together. “Braeden was right,” he says softly, laughing a little. She isn’t ever going to let him live that down.

Scott kisses the corner of his mouth. “Right about what?”   

Stiles shakes his head. He presses his face against Scott’s throat, kissing the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. His skin feels too warm, like he’s burning from the inside out. 

Allison tugs Stiles forward by his shirt, over Scott, rolling them over until she can press her mouth to his. He cups her jaw in his hands like she’s something precious and breakable, and Allison slides one of his hands down until it brushes her breast. She squeezes his fingers and hisses to show how breakable she _isn’t._

Scott presses a kiss to the nape of her neck, teeth dragging against the skin. Allison’s lips curve into a wicked grin, and she tilts her neck back further, baring the delicate, pale skin at her throat - like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to Scott, like she doesn’t know exactly what that _means._

Scott growls and clenches his hands on her hips, fingers digging into the skin so hard, he’ll probably leave bruises. Allison groans, pressing into the touch. She angles Scott’s face up from her neck and presses a hard, bruising kiss against his lips. Every touch is easy, familiar, completely sure of its welcome.

As much as Stiles is enjoying watching, he would very much like to get to the participation part of this program. He clears his throat, and Scott pulls away, arching an eyebrow. 

“Feeling a little neglected here,” Stiles says, fingers brushing against Scott’s hip.

Allison huffs a laugh, eyes dancing. “Well, we can’t have that.” She leans down to kiss Stiles, barely brushing her mouth against his before she starts tugging his shirt over his head.

“Off,” she says, and Stiles sits up, giving her a mock salute.

“Yes, ma’am.” Scott laughs and Stiles gives him a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle as he drags his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor before tugging Allison back down on top of him.

She straddles his thighs and rolls her hips, and Stiles' eyes roll back in his head. Nimble fingers brush across his chest, dipping between his collar bones and down his sternum. Stiles arches up with a hiss.

Scott tugs his shirt off before he slots himself in neatly at Allison's back. He snags the hem of her shirt and drags it over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up. He kisses her neck.

Stiles' hands flutter over Scott’s at her waist, not sure where to land. She guides them to rest on her thighs.

"You can touch," she whispers.

"I know." She raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I know I could if you wanted me to. Touch you, I mean." A smile quirks at Allison' lips, and Stiles slides his hand up her back until he reaches her neck, pulling her down so he can kiss her again. She tumbles to the side, allowing Scott to curl up against his back.

Scott cups his cheek, turning his head to the side.

“Hey, I’m not the girl,” Stiles murmurs.

Scott kisses him in answer, languid and deep. “Shut up, Stiles.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me.” Stiles grins when Scott groans; he nips at Stiles’ throat in retaliation, and Stiles’ breath hitches. He tilts his head back further. Scott hums, a low rumble of a sound deep in his chest. He leans his head against Stiles’ shoulder and just breathes. Allison drags her fingers through his hair.

Stiles shifts until he’s pressed against her from chest to knees. “So, no sex then?”

Scott groans, lifting his head with a fond smile that makes warmth curls in Stiles’ chest.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Allison says, laughter in her voice. She presses her lips to his temple.

“So demanding,” Stiles mutters as he closes his eyes. He sleeps. For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t dream.

\--

His father doesn’t say a word about the two extra bodies in his bed the next morning, just raises an eyebrow when he catches Allison walking out of the room in nothing but one of Scott’s oversize shirts and a pair of Stiles’ underwear.

“Morning, Sheriff,” she says with a grin. 

Scott bursts into laughter at Stiles’ pained groan. “Oh, come on. Like this is the worst position your father has caught us in.”

“Not helping, Scotty,” Stiles says, voice muffled from where his face is pressed into Scott’s chest. The bed dips, and another pair of arms winds their way around his waist. Allison kisses the back of his neck. He shivers.

Scott dips his head to nose along Stiles’ jaw and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “How about now?”

Stiles inhales slow and deep. He tilts their foreheads together. “Better,” he murmurs, exhales, and squeezes Allison’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Teen Wolf Rare Pair Exchange for [kaycares.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaycares) So many of your prompts called out to me, and I had a blast writing this for you. Hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> My eternal gratitude to [riverchic1998](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverchic1998) and [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted) for being stellar beta readers, and to [geckoholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic) for answering my eleventh hour plea for help because I am incapable of making decisions. Wouldn't have been able to do this without you, ladies <3


End file.
